11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
I spend most of Saturday doing damage control with Cade at Beach Brew—trying to figure out exactly what I said, how I said it, and how much I embarrassed myself.
I will never go to a bar for a hookup ever again. I’m done trying to hook up altogether.
“So, the worst of it,” I say, “was crying over Belinda?”
“Mostly,” he says. “Crying about how she doesn’t want you, how nobody does. Which is a lie.”
I remember being in his truck. Though it’s blurry, I remember the feeling in my chest when Cade said he wanted me. The way my heart was beating so hard, so fast, with so much force, I was certain it would pop out of my chest like a cartoon.
I know he meant he wanted me for sex. But for him to say those words, look at me with that dark and stormy gaze, and say he wanted me .
Thinking about those eyes smoldering over me for the rest of the summer can’t be worth any pain that might follow it.
“I’m thankful I didn’t sleep with that guy,” I admit. “I know there’s better out there.”
The storm clouds in Cade’s eyes twinkle. “That’s my girl. Get back out there.”
My heart does that thing again, feeling like cymbals slamming against the walls of my chest. “I don’t mean you.”
“Oh, I know. Haven’t you made that abundantly clear?” He takes a sip from his coffee. “I’m just happy to see you realize your worth again, princess.”
“Stop it,” I say.
“I think we’re in a close enough relationship that I can call you something other than Gigi,” he counters.
“We’re not,” I say.
“When will we be?”
“Never.”
Cade chuckles. “You know, I was thinking about you saying I don’t have a heart.”
“Did I hurt your feelings?” I mock.
“No. But you made me realize that you’re right. I don’t have one.”
I blink, confused. “Okay.”
“And you do.”
“Right…” He’s drawing this out, and I don’t like it. “And you’re saying this because?”
“So, I want the girl with a heart to show me how to have one. I want you to show me the kinds of dates guys with hearts take girls on. So I have reference material.”
“You want me to… date you?”
“No,” he says. “But I want you to show me how to date you. Or any girl like you. In case I ever…” He looks uncomfortable, scratching at the back of his neck. “Like, if I decide to get serious someday.”
“You want me to get you ready to be Prince Charming to somebody else?” I ask.
“You’ve made it clear you don’t want me in any capacity,” he says. His brow arches, pulling his smirk up with it. “But somebody like you, who wants a perfect, gentlemanly man, might someday. I have no idea how to do that. I have no interest in it right now, probably not ever.” I fight wincing at his words. “But it’s worth knowing how.”
“I don’t know.” I bite my cheek. Flashing a grin, I say, “Entice me?”
He nods, already moving on, as if he didn’t just show a sliver of emotion. “How about I buy you a refill on that coffee?”
I nudge my empty cup toward him. “Please.”
Cade gets me a fresh coffee, and when he tells me goodbye and leaves the shop, pain tugs at my chest. I’m starting to like being with him, like who I am and how I feel when we’re together—emboldened. But every time I get excited, I remind myself that nothing can happen between us. He can’t be my Prince Charming because he has no interest in happily ever after.
I sit at Beach Brew for most of the day. In fact, when EJ comes in after a shift at the ice cream and pizza parlor, I’m surprised to see him, never dreaming that it’s time for a closing shift.
I decide to get myself one more coffee to-go. I’m waiting at the pickup counter when the overhead bell chimes. And my husband walks in. Fabio hair, a dark green beanie, dirty Chucks, wonderfully tan.
No, Gigi. Focus. Not husband. Casual date.
Whatever he will be to me, I know one thing: he will be with me, because I’m hot. Because I’m a woman who any man is lucky to have a connection with. And as much as I try not to, I’m imagining Cade giving me an encouraging, “That’s my girl,” as I gather the courage to speak.
“Hey,” I say to the guy when he makes his way to the pickup counter.
“Hi,” he says. “How’s your day?”
“It’s been good. I’ve been here most of the day. Yours?”
“It’s good,” he says. “Just taking a break from my studio.”
“Are you a tattoo artist?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just a regular artist.”
I’ve been spending too much time around Cade to default to tattoos. “My friend is, too. He does tattoos.” What the fuck, Gigi?
“Different kind of art form,” the guy says. “But the thing I like about painting is the softness. I like having to take care, make sure everything is perfect.”
He seems perfect. I need softness. I crave care.
“That’s admirable,” I say. My heart squeezes.
“I’m Shane,” he says. “And what’s your name? Don’t tell me. Is it Beautiful?”
I giggle, feeling my cheeks warm. “Gigi.”
“Is that a translation for beautiful?” Shane asks. Then, he chuckles, shakes his head, and bows it, like a dog hanging its head in shame. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not good at this.”
I think about Cade, his smoothness. How easy things are for him. With him.
“I’m not, either,” I confess. “But I’m a sucker for a guy who tries.”
Shane smiles. “You wanna sit for a minute? Talk?”
My stomach flutters. Immediately, I say, “Do you have anywhere to be?”
He shakes his head. “Right now, I want to sit and get to know you.”
Oh, he’s good.
“Me, too,” I say.
And so we do.
We sit there for at least an hour, likely two, talking about everything. He asks me about my life, I ask him about his. He’s in nursing school, painting on the side, using the money he makes from commission to pay for the small studio he’s in. He’s such a happy person. I find myself overjoyed talking with him, like the sunshine that he embodies is warming me from the inside out.
“I should get going,” I say after I don’t know how long. EJ keeps peeking over at me from the counter, like he’s checking to make sure I’m still in one piece.
“Me, too,” Shane says, a sad edge to his voice. “I was mid-painting before I met you. Now I think I want to scrap it altogether and paint a portrait of you instead.”
I flush. “How charming.”
“I try,” he says. “Gah. That was bad. I’m just gonna stop doing that.” I think it’s cute how much he’s trying to flirt. No one else I’ve dated—Marcus and a boy in my third-grade class making up the entire list—has ever wanted to impress me so much. “So, how about dinner?”
“Yes,” I say, handing over my phone for him to put in his number. He does, and once he hands my phone back, I text him so he has mine.
Then, after Shane has given me a soft smile and a small wave goodbye that makes my heart flutter, I text Cade.
I’ve got a date.
He texts back within seconds.
That’s my girl.
My heart starts burning, engulfed in flames.